


Worth Waiting For

by yodasyoyo



Series: 1008 tumblr followers! A.K.A. The Fluffy Assholes Collection. [10]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski are Soulmates, Fluff, Gratuitous Star Wars References, Happy Ending, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, soul marks, very mild angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-09 06:22:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16444484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yodasyoyo/pseuds/yodasyoyo
Summary: Stiles slumps further in his desk chair, and stares disconsolately out of his bedroom window. Perhaps he should be celebrating. After all, this afternoon a soulmark appeared on his wrist revealing the name of his soulmate.He has a soulmate.Fuck. He scrubs one hand across his face.This is a disaster.





	Worth Waiting For

**Author's Note:**

> So this is technically part of my 1008 tumblr followers celebration. Written for Mssmartian who prompted "If I threw a stick you'd leave, right?"
> 
> Fair warning, this is *my* version of a soulmate AU, and as I think both canon Derek and canon Stiles would have issues with the idea of predestined soulmates for obvious reasons, I don't shy away from that fact. Which isn't to say this fic doesn't have a happy ending because it does, but it does deal (obliquely) with the idea that both characters have at times had their choices taken away from them, and therefore might find the concept of soulmates a little less comforting than your average person :D

“So what’s your plan?” Scott stands over Stiles, his patented ‘True Alpha Guidance Counsellor,’ expression firmly in place.

With a dramatic shrug, Stiles slumps further in his desk chair, and stares disconsolately out of his bedroom window. Perhaps he should be celebrating. After all, this afternoon a soulmark appeared on his wrist revealing the name of his soulmate.

He has a soulmate.

Fuck. He scrubs one hand across his face.

This is a disaster.

“Don’t front with me, dude,” Scott says, crossing his arms. “I know you have a plan.”

“You think I have a plan for this eventuality? This one? Specifically? Seriously? You expect a plan?” Stiles laughs high and a little hysterical, while tugging the fabric of his hoodie down over his wrist. “A plan?! What was your plan when your soulmark showed up? Ohhhmygodddd!!! Must make out with Allison immediately?”

“Pretty much.” Scott cuffs Stiles over the back of the head gently and grins. “And don’t mock, it worked out pretty well. Plus, you can adapt it: Make out with Derek.” He throws his hands in the air palms up as if to say ‘problem solved.’

“Ha! Yeah. That’s going to happen. I’m going to make out with Derek. Make out. With Derek. Derek.” Stiles flails so hard he almost falls off his chair. “I’m just going to walk up to Derek fucking Hale and plant one on him apropos of nothing. That’ll go down well. I’m sure it won’t end in death and dismemberment.”

“He’s your soulmate.”

“No! No. No he isn’t–”

“The name on your wrist–”

“Reads Derek. But that could be any Derek. There are probably a couple million Derek’s in the world at any given time. It could be–” Stiles searches for a name. “–Derek Jeter. Derek Jeter could be my soulmate.”

“Jeter. Seriously? That’s who you’re going with?”

“Yes!” Stiles huffs in a breath through his nose, then throws himself forward in his chair and opens up his laptop. “In fact. To prove my point I’m going to find a way to email Derek Jeter now and–”

With a sigh Scott reaches out and catches Stiles’ wrist. “Your soulmate is not Derek Jeter. For one thing, you’re a Mets fan.”

“Well it’s at least as likely to be Derek Jeter as it is to be Derek Hale.”

“No. No it isn’t.”

“I–”

“Why don’t you just speak to the Derek you know in real life first? Remember Occam’s Razor?”

Scott McCall.

Always so patient.

So reasonable.

So fucking irritating.

It’s a wonder Stiles has managed to maintain this friendship so long in the face of such blatant provocation.

“‘Just speak to the Derek you know,’” Stiles mimics, rising to his feet. He points at a finger at Scott. “This whole thing is a clusterfuck of epic proportions, and I am going to do what I do best–”

Scott sighs deeply. “You can’t just ignore–”

“Oh you just fucking watch me. I am a pro at ignoring all the things. Homework. The ending to virtually ever TV show I’ve ever liked. The entirety of Infinity War. The way you pronounce the word ‘supposedly–’

“What’s wrong with–”

“–the increasing threat of antibiotic resistant super viruses, meteors, the Yellowstone super volcano, not to mention the lingering feeling that I’m disappointing everyone I know. I have a Ph-fucking-D in pretending things are not happening. I’m just gonna wear long sleeves for the rest of my life, that’s all, and everything is gonna continue on as normal.”

“But–” Scott looks like he doesn’t know where to begin. “Duuuude.”

“No! No. Don’t even–”

“I know you like him. Why don’t you just talk to him. Maybe ask him whether he has your name on his wrist?”

Stiles just stares at him. Stares. Because nobody asks anyone that question. It’s considered the height of rudeness. “Just ask–” Stiles laughs, high, and hysterical. “Just ask. Just ask whether he has my fucking name on his wrist.”

“What’s the worst–”

“The worst? Okay. Let’s conduct a little thought experiment here, Scotty. Let’s pretend for one moment that Derek does have my name on his wrist even though he hasn’t mentioned it. Hasn’t even hinted at it.”

Scott opens his mouth. Then closes it again. Waits.

“If he has my name on his wrist,” Stiles continues, “then why hasn’t he been knocking on my door to confess his undying love for me, why do I have to go first?”

“Awww, bro.” Scott’s expression goes all soft and mushy, he reaches out and places a hand on Stiles arm. “You do love him. I knew it.”

“No!” Stiles says, flinching backwards. “No. That isn’t– I can’t believe you would try and imply that I–”

“Just speak to him–” Scott pats him on the shoulder. “Even if you don’t want to ask whether he has a soulmark, you could show him yours and see what happens.”

“Oh my god.” Stiles covers his face with his hands. “You get that not everyone ends up like you and Allison, right?”

“Stop deflecting. We both know you wouldn’t want to be like me and Allison anyway. But if you take a risk, you might get to be Stiles and Derek. Isn’t that worth something?”

“Ugh. I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“Maybe. Even though you sound like Lucy Van Pelt dispensing all your wise advice and tough love. Are you gonna charge me 5 cents for this shit?”

“My fee is a grilled cheese sandwich and the right to say ‘I told you so.’”

Stiles sighs. “You can have a grilled cheese,” he says, “But don’t hold your breath on the other thing.”

-

Not everyone gets a soulmark. That’s the first thing. Soulmarks have existed as long as humans have, but only appear in about twenty percent of the population.

After years of study scientists can’t work out why that would be. There’s no gene they can isolate, no apparent rhyme or reason as to why or when they appear. They don’t show up on your eighteenth birthday or when you first meet your ‘soulmate’. There’s no discernible pattern. It’s just a name that appears suddenly on the inside of a person’s wrist. It might arrive when you’re five or twenty-five or ninety-five, or never at all. All anyone knows for sure is– if you get one, then you have a soulmate. One person who’s meant to be yours, and that name on your wrist is the universe presenting you with a big fucking neon sign.

The real kick in the balls is, they don’t necessarily match either. So just because one person has a mark telling them someone is their soulmate doesn’t mean the other part of the ‘pair’ has it too. Basically it’s a fucking nightmare. If ever Stiles wants hard evidence that fate is a cruel, capricious pain in the ass, then the soulmate phenomenon is proof.

Which isn’t to say it’s always a disaster. Sometimes it works out fine.

Scott and Allison’s soulmarks appeared the night she arrived on the doorstep of the vet clinic with an injured dog that she hit with her car. The way Scott tells it, their marks arrived perfectly in synch. Just like in every goddamn soulmate movie that Hollywood has ever made.

On the other hand, Stiles’ soulmark arrives during a pack meeting one idle Tuesday afternoon. Just a normal run of the mill pack meeting. They hold them at Derek’s apartment weekly ever since Derek moved his bed upstairs, bought a couple of large couches and an armchair for the main living area and fixed the gaping hole in the wall. He even has a semi-functioning kitchenette with a toaster oven and a microwave and everything. It’s, well, not cozy exactly, but definitely better than it was.

The day it happens the pack are all sitting around discussing what to do about a coven of witches that have taken up residence in the preserve. Jackson and Lydia are curled together in an armchair, Scott and Allison are sitting on the love seat, Isaac is perched on the counter in the kitchenette, Derek is sitting on the couch, posture straight, expression scrupulously attentive, and Stiles is sprawled untidily next to him, exhausted after researching most of last night. It’s a lazy two in the afternoon, unseasonably warm for the time of year, and Stiles skipped lunch. Now, he’s trying to listen but all he can really think about is how much he wants to reach out and snag the last few Flamin’ Hot Cheetos from the bowl Derek set out for the pack when they arrived.

“So, what’s the best way to deal with these witches then?” Scott asks, looking round hopefully at the pack.

Nobody says anything for a beat; for Stiles’ part, he decides he’s too lazy to move. His internal battle is over: The cheetos are just gonna have to tempt him from a distance, he’s simply too tired to lift his arms. “We could just throw a bucket of water over them and get it over with," he suggests.

“Water?” Scott looks adorably confused. “Wait. Why would that work?”

Stiles scrubs a hand over his face, “Why would that– seriously, Scotty? Seriously?”

“Jesus, McCall,” spits Jackson.

Derek reaches out snags the almost empty bowl of Cheetos from the table and passes it back to Stiles, who takes them without argument and stuffs them into his mouth. Derek may or may not be his favorite. Not that he’d ever admit it to anyone.

“Water would not work,” Derek says to Scott with a sigh, “And apparently we need to get you to watch the Wizard of Oz.”

Through a mouthful of half masticated Cheeto, Stiles says, “Scotty, please tell me I’ve not stumbled across another gaping hole in your pop culture knowledge. It’s bad enough you still haven’t watched Star Wars.”

“Wait,” Derek says, “He hasn’t watched Star Wars?” He looks between Scott and Stiles, one eyebrow racing towards his hairline.

“Nope,” Scott says unrepentantly. “Never.”

Derek looks honestly confused. “How is that possible?” He turns to Stiles. “How did you allow that to happen?”

“Allow?” Stiles sputters. “I find your lack of faith disturbing. I have tried, okay? Tried.”

Derek gives him a Look. “Do or do not,” he says. “There is no try. We’re having a Star Wars movie marathon next Friday, attendance is compulsory.”

“Hey,” Scott says. “Who’s the Alpha here? We’re supposed to be talking about witches!”

The whole room starts bickering about Star Wars and witches and the Wizard of Oz, and then Allison admits she’s never seen Beauty and the Beast, and Lydia says she’s never watched the Goonies and Stiles– well– he’s clutching on to the now empty bowl of Cheetos Derek handed him and trying not to freak out about the fact that Derek Hale is a Star Wars nerd.

Jesus.

He leans over to Derek while everyone is bickering and says, “You seriously like Star Wars?”

Derek’s other eyebrow rises to join the first. “Up until about twenty seconds ago I thought everybody did.”

“You would think that,” Stiles says, “But up until five seconds ago I legit believed I was the only person in Beacon Hills who had actually watched these movies, which seemed statistically unlikely–”

Derek smirks. “Never tell me the odds.”

Stiles’ mouth drops open and he scrambles to sit up. “Not gonna lie, Derek,” he says as he licks Cheeto dust of his fingers. “All this hidden Star Wars knowledge is turning me on faster than the Millenium Falcon completed the Kessel run.”

“I mean–” Derek’s brow puckers. “–Technically that analogy doesn’t make sense because it isn’t how fast the Millenium Falcon completed the Kessel Run, but the shortest measurement of distance–”

Stiles clutches one hand to his chest. “Is the correct answer. Oh my god. Will you marry me?” He’s only half joking.

Derek shakes his head, smirking and looks away. Across from them Scott’s trying to drag everyone back on topic so they can talk about the witches. The next thing Stiles knows there’s was a prickling sensation on his wrist, he itches at it absently, doesn’t think much of it at the time. When he gets home later that afternoon, though, he notices it clear as day in neat cursive.

Boom.

Derek’s name.

Soulmark.

He stands there for a full fifteen minutes trying to stave off a panic attack.

Then he calls Scott.

-

For two weeks after the soulmark appears Stiles alternates between freaking out and trying to work out if Derek has a soulmark.

It shouldn’t be that difficult, right?

Derek has a long and illustrious history of shirtlessness. That first year, with Peter and the kanima, Stiles could’ve sworn that Derek was being paid to be shirtless he wandered around semi-naked so often. Now though– well– not so much.

Maybe it’s the autumn weather, but these days Derek favors Henleys or his leather jacket, or, on one memorable occasion a soft, plum colored thumbhole sweater. His wrists are always covered though, and Stiles has no idea when that happened or whether it’s significant. All he knows is suddenly it’s as though Derek’s a chaste Victorian maiden and Stiles is some kind of wrist ogling pervert, who keeps trying to catch a glimpse of the barest hint of skin.

Stiles just needs to know, that’s the thing. He needs to know if Derek has a soulmark too, and if the universe can manage it he’d like to find out in a way that causes him as little embarrassment, unrequited pining and general mortification as possible– because quite frankly he had enough of that with Lydia.

He doesn’t need another Lydia.

The fact is he’s spent the last three years since he got over Lydia happily hooking up when he feels like it and occasionally indulging in low key, casual relationships. It suits him. None of the crippling pining or stifling feelings. Just happy, healthy, convenient fun.

It’s been good.

More than that, it’s been fucking necessary.

And sure, there’s always been this little bit of him that he’s tucked away, this nagging feeling that Derek is something to him. That there’s– potential, there– but for the most part Stiles has ignored it. He’s learned the hard way that just because he sees potential doesn’t mean the other person will, and he doesn’t want to fall that hard for someone again, doesn’t want to be consumed by it, only to be crushed. So he’s carefully set aside those feelings and got on with living his life.

And he’s been doing fine.

He has.

Or he was.

Right up until Derek’s name appeared on his wrist.

Because since that happened Derek’s all he can think about. He lays in bed at night imagining what they would be like together. The bickering. The sarcasm. The sex. The easy camaraderie. He imagines baseball dates and meals out and pillow talk. He imagines birthdays and Christmases and Derek calling Stiles’ dad ‘Dad’.

All of a sudden it’s as though every ruthlessly repressed feeling Stiles ever had over the last few years has burst through the carefully constructed dam of his own feigned indifference.

The thing is: He lied to Scott before, and not just about his soulmate not being Derek, but about being able to ignore things. About being able to ignore _this._

Truthfully Stiles isn’t able to ignore things. Not really. He just pretends he can because it’s easier than admitting that he cares about everything so fucking much. Turns out, telling himself he’s ignoring a problem is easier than admitting how little control he has in his own life.

On some level that’s what he resents about this situation the most when he gets right down to it. The fact that at its root, this soulmate bullshit is just another example of the universe taking away his control. Taking away Derek’s control, too, which is as bad, if not worse given their respective histories. He and Derek deserve to make their own choices, and soulmates by definition are the exact opposite of that. Even if he does sorta, kinda feel stuff for Derek, how can he tell him now?

The whole thing sucks. The universe is punking him and Stiles doesn’t want to be part of. He refuses.

Or he wants to be strong enough to refuse.

But when he lets himself think about it for even a minute he knows, he knows, how good they’d be together and it makes his heart ache.

Lying in bed two weeks after the soul mark appears he admits to himself that it would have been better if he’d just asked Derek out months ago– when it still would have felt like an actual choice for them both.

Maybe then they could have made something of it.

Maybe then Stiles could have made his peace with it.

-

It takes another two weeks, making it a full month since the soulmark first appeared, before Stiles finally caves.

Turns out he really can’t ignore it.

He just can’t.

Not when the knowledge is burning a hole in his brain on a daily basis. Not when every time he looks down he sees Derek’s name on his wrist.

So he drives to Derek’s apartment late one Friday and spends about five minutes pacing up and down in the hallway outside his front door, psyching himself up to knock, when Derek opens it anyway.

Stiles stumbles to a stop and stares at him, mouth gaping, and Derek stares back, one eyebrow raised.

“Are you coming in?” he says eventually.

“Yes. No–I don’t know.”

“Are you OK?”

“No. Yes– Maybe.”

Derek folds his arms and after a beat Stiles resumes his pacing.

“Look, will you just come inside–” Derek says after a bit.

“No. I can’t, I–”

“I don’t want to stand here all evening and I can hear you pacing and smell your anxiety even with the door closed.”

“Oh what a tragedy for you!” Stiles says bitterly.

Derek sighs. “If I make you cocoa will you come in?”

Stiles pauses, considers. “I don’t know,” he says, and starts pacing again.

“Well if I throw a stick will you leave?”

“Haha. I’m the one who gets to make the dog jokes, buster.”

“So make one.”

“I don’t know. Something about flea powder being raised by wolves and shedding fur on the carpet, yadda yadda yadda. I’m in crisis mode here, Derek, if you haven’t noticed.”

“On my doorstep.”

“Yes.”

“Refusing to come in, and refusing to talk about it.”

“Stop trying to make this all about you!”

“What’s wrong, Stiles?”

“Everything!”

“Everything?”

“Yes.” He clutches his hands in his hair.

“Can you be more specific?” 

Stiles knows he’s being unreasonable, but his heart is beating fast and his chest feels tight and he’s so fucking strung out. He takes a deep breath. Then another. Then one more. Finally he says, “Do you believe in fate?”

“Fate?”

“You know. Fate. Some things are meant to be. Some people are–” Stiles waves a hand, his sentence trailing off as he cuts a glance at Derek out the corner of his eye.

Shifting a little foot to foot, Derek says, “You mean like um–”

“–Like soulmates.”

“Huh.” Derek swallows. “Why?”

“Can’t I just ask?" Stiles pleads. "Does there have to be a reason?”

Derek takes a deep breath, holding himself still. He’s watching Stiles intently now, his eyes following every movement. “I don’t believe in fate,” he says carefully.

“Oh,” Stiles nods, and finds he can’t stop nodding. He feels simultaneously crushed and relieved and absolutely devastated. “Oh. Yeah. Okay. No. Of course.”

“I don’t think relationships are predestined or–” Derek spreads his palms up– “Any of that shit.”

“Right,” Stiles swallows. “Good to know. Well. Ok. This has been helpful. Ok.  Right. Well I better go–” He feels the sudden, urgent need to be somewhere else, anywhere else. He turns to leave.

“Stiles–” Something in Derek’s voice stops him dead in his tracks.

“What?” He looks back.

“I don’t believe in fate. But I believe in soulmates.”

“How?” Stiles wheels round to face him. “How can you say you don’t believe in fate but you do believe in soulmates? That’s some pretty serious cognitive dissonance, Hale.”

“Is it?” Derek quirks an eyebrow.

“Yeah. Okay! Okay. Let’s say hypothetically that I–” Stiles gulps, but finds he can’t look away from Derek’s intense gaze, and he definitely can't back out now. He screws his courage to the sticking place. “--I recently discovered that I have a soulmate.”

At that Derek’s gaze flicks down to Stiles’ covered wrist, then back up again to meet his eye. "Okay,” he says.

“You’re saying that the universe isn’t telling me I should be with that person? That we’re not– I don’t know, fated to be with each other.”

“In that hypothetical scenario the universe is definitely telling you something, but–” He trails off.

“--But?”

“Okay. Let’s say that hypothetically I have a soulmate too.” Derek takes a step towards him. “Let’s say I discovered the fact a couple of years back after one particularly eventful night in a swimming pool.” He rubs a palm over the back of his neck, looking rueful.

Stiles inhales shakily. “Oh. Well. Uh. Hypothetically why didn’t you say something back then?”

“Because,” Derek sighs. “Just because they were my soulmate, didn’t mean I was theirs.”

“Yeah, but–”

“Look. Here it is. I believe people can become soulmates, through their own choices, through their own actions. Through free will. I think the soulmark is just–” He shrugs. “–The universe confirming it.”

“Yeah?” Stiles says, feeling all shaky, trying desperately to get his head round what Derek’s saying. To really understand it. “You really believe that?”

“Absolutely,” Derek nods seriously. “Turns out, I’ve had some time to think about it.” He smiles ever so slightly.

“Okay, well that–” Stiles exhales, and feels a whole bunch of tension leave him as a wave of pure undiluted relief floods through him head to toe. “--That makes me feel a whole lot better.”

“Good.” Derek smiles properly then, and Stiles smiles back helplessly. After a beat Derek says, almost a little shy, “Can I see it?”

“Yeah. Yeah, god. Okay.” Stiles lifts the sleeve of his hoodie and holds his arm out; Derek leans forward to inspect his own name.

“When?”

“A month ago,” Stiles admits. “I’ve pretty much been panicking for a whole month, over choices and free will and predestination and a whole bunch of ethical crap. Can I?” He nods at Derek’s wrist.

Derek lifts his own arm and pulls back the sleeve of his Henley revealing the name Mieczyslaw in Stiles’ untidy scrawl.

At the sight of it Stiles feels himself smiling so hard his face might split in two, feels something warm and golden bloom in his chest. He feels happy. Not that he hasn’t been, but right now he feels settled in some indefinable way. Peaceful. “Thanks,” he says, and he means it.

“For what?” Derek glances up at him.

“For not telling me all this time,” Stiles says. “For giving me the choice.”

“Not a problem.” Derek smiles soft, then says, “Now are you gonna come inside the apartment? I’m fucking freezing out here.”

Stiles nudges their shoulders together. “Yeah,” he says. “I am.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks if you leave comments or kudos. I hope you enjoyed the fic :D


End file.
